Chapter 8
LILIANA
I wake before the sun does. The sky outside is a dark bruise, it's soft and heavy. Giovanni is still asleep beside me, one arm draped across my waist like it belongs there. His hand is warm against my belly, the weight of it anchoring me to the bed, to this moment.
My body aches, a lingering feel of what happened last night, what I'd let happen. I pull the covers tighter around myself, like they can hide the truth from me, but they can’t.
It’s all there. In the folds of the sheets.
In the scent of him on my skin. In the soft, measured breath against the back of my neck.
I stare at the ceiling. Count the lines in the plaster. Anything to not think.
But I can still feel him. Everywhere. Between my legs, my thighs, in the soft ache that pulses each time I move. I feel him in my skin, in the way my lips still tingle from his mouth, in the hollow of my chest that clenches with the weight of what I let happen.
What I did.
He murmurs something in his sleep and shifts, his breath brushing my shoulder. I flinch. Just slightly, but it’s enough to tell me to get the hell out of bed before he wakes. I don't know how I can face him.
I slide out from under his arm and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. My robe lies where he dropped it, a crumpled whisper of silk that feels too thin, too delicate. I wrap it tightly around myself as if it'll shield me.
My legs tremble when I stand, and I wince from the soreness. More from what we did than what I’m feeling now. I move quietly across the room. The floor is cool beneath my careful feet.
In the bathroom, I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. It's unfamiliar. My hair is a mess of dark tangles. My mouth is swollen. My neck is blotched with marks from his mouth. I look like someone who’s been thoroughly ruined.
I look like someone who should be happy.
I press my fingers to the marks on my skin as I look away.
What did I expect? That he’d say he loved me and mean it? That this would change things?
He’s a man who does what he wants, takes what he wants. I was convenient. I was available. I was willing.
Stupid girl.
He’s kind. Gentle, even. But love? That’s something he doesn’t owe me. That’s not something men like him give. Not to women like me.
Last night wasn’t about love. It was about lust. And I gave in. I hate myself for it.
Knowing I can't hide in here forever, I return to the room. When I return to the room, he’s awake. He’s sitting up, the sheets pooled around his waist, dark hair tousled from sleep. He’s watching me.
Despite my vehement denial about what happened last night, I can't seem to look away from him. Dio, the man is gorgeous.
You left the bed, he signs.
I don’t answer. I can't.
Are you alright?
I nod, even though I’m not. My throat is tight, like I have words to say even though I can't form them.
He frowns. “Liliana.” He says my name and I read it on his lips.
I should get my hearing aid, but I can't move. I'm looking at him, watching him intently, as if in doing so, I'll be able to hold myself off from falling headlong for his charm the next time. I try to smile. I fail woefully.
Tell me what’s wrong, he says.
I shake my head.
I won’t know unless you let me know.
I wish I could. But my hands are trembling like they can't carry the weight of what I need to convey. I can’t tell him I feel cheap. Can’t tell him that every time he touches me, it feels like a gift I didn’t earn. That I don’t know what I am to him. That I want more than he can give.
He stands and walks toward me. I take a step back before I can stop myself. He notices and stops short. Something flashes in his eyes. It's quick, and I almost don't catch it. Hurt, maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s just what I want to see.
He exhales slowly and reaches for his shirt.
Alright, he signs. I won’t press.
I nod again. I don’t trust myself to speak. My hands are clenched in the fabric of my robe. My nails dig into my palms. I hope the pain will keep me upright. I scramble for what to do and my hearing aid is the victim. I fixate on it as I plug it into my ear.
He buttons his shirt in silence. Then his watch. His ring. His movements are precise and quiet. I watch him from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t look at me again.
At the door, he pauses. He sees my aid and says, “I have things to see to. Let Tomasso know if you need anything.”
I nod, my throat working.
“Liliana,” he says, one last time.
I finally look at him. His eyes are unreadable.
“When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen.”
Then he leaves without waiting for a response.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click. I stand there for a breath, pretending it doesn’t sound like finality. Then I crawl back into bed, my legs dragging like they aren’t carrying just my body.
The sheets are still warm where he lay, still heavy with the scent of his skin.
Musky. Clean. Masculine. I bury my face into the pillow he used and inhale deeply like some pathetic girl desperate to hold on to something that's never been hers.
The ache between my legs pulses with every small shift of my body, each movement a reminder of what I gave him. What I gave away.
I curl into myself, my knees tuck to my chest and the robe gathers around me like a shell. I desperately wish to disappear into the folds, but only if wishes were horses. The thoughts I've tried to keep at bay come fast and unforgiving.
At the forefront of my thoughts, the question that persists is why.
Why did I give myself to him? Most of all, why did I marry him?
If I'm being honest, I shouldn’t have married him.
I could've damned whatever consequences my father would most definitely dole out to me and flat out refused.
I'd convinced myself—no—lied to myself that marrying Giovanni was the best thing to do in my position, when in truth, I had an array of choices.
Haven't I learned that no matter what position you find yourself in, there is always a choice.
And as choices go, I shouldn’t have let last night happen. I sold myself cheap and for what? A man who will never see me. Not really. I've met him less than a month, and his presence in my life has already started to influence my decisions.
But can I blame him, really? I'm the pathetic one. Starved of affection all my life, a kind look from him was all it took.
But oh, he was so kind, so impossibly gentle.
I knew the effort it took him. It was like I was something precious.
But in truth, that doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn't mean he cares. It just means he’s good at pretending.
Men like him know how to take. I'd been convenient. A thing to be used and put aside.
And I handed myself over, like a fool, thinking maybe it meant something more.
A knock sounds on the door and I stiffen. My heart lurches. For a second, I think he’s come back. For a second, I want him to.
Stupid.
“Signora?” It’s Maria.
I tap loudly on my bedstand to signal for her to come in. She does. If she thinks it's odd I'm languishing in bed still, she doesn't show.
Good morning, Maria, I sign to her.
Good morning, signora, she signs back.
I blink at her, hoping that she doesn't sign more of her words. I can't take being treated like a pathetic little invalid, not right now.
I see her glance briefly at my ear, and as if she knows what I'm thinking, she speaks. “Don Giovanni asked me to let you know breakfast is being served downstairs. He requests that you join him.”
My voice sticks in my throat. I don’t want to see him. I can’t. Not with all of the smell of him still clinging to my skin.
I sit up slowly and force my hands to sign. Tell him I have a headache.
Maria’s brows draw together. “Would you like me to bring something to you?”
I shake my head. She hesitates. I wish I could yell at her to leave. But she's not in any way responsible for how I feel, so I turn my head. That exact moment, she curtsies, then leaves quietly.
I lie back down, staring at the ceiling. Telling Maria to tell him I have a headache was a mistake. Now, he'll think I'm unwell, and he might come to tend to me. I imagine him thinking, poor little puppy.
Against my better judgment, I find myself staring at the door, tensed, half hoping he’ll come check on me. And in spite of myself, my pulse quickens.
But he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? He has important things to tend to. I'm not on his list of priorities, despite what he'd like me to believe.
I burrow deeper into the blankets, biting back the sudden sting behind my eyes. I hate that I’d hoped. That some part of me wants to believe I matter to him. I hate how weak it makes me feel.
At some point, exhaustion wins, and my thoughts drift into the murk of sleep.
When I wake, the light has changed. Sunlight filters through the heavy drapes in slanted golden stripes. The air is still and quiet. I blink against the light, momentarily disoriented.
I realize it’s well past noon. I slept longer than I meant to.
Outside, the sky is a soft, pale blue. A breeze stirs the edge of the curtain. I rise slowly, stretching, and the ache in my body has lessened to a dullness, not the biting reminder it was.
I go about getting ready for the day. First on my list is to take a long shower. The water is hot and cleansing. I scrub every inch of my skin, trying to rinse away the guilt and confusion still clinging to me. I refuse to ponder on what has happened.
I feel clean when I'm done, but I know it's fickle.
I towel off and go about getting dressed. I pick a midi green cotton dress that buttons down the front. It's modest but flattering, cinched at the waist with a thin belt. I have a thing for dresses that are perfectly fitted at the waist.
I debate brushing my hair back or packing it up in a ponytail. An image of Giovanni burying his hands in my air filters into my thoughts, momentarily distracting me, and I mentally shake my head.
No.